Death is like the insect Menacing the tree, Competent to kill it, But decoyed may be. Bait it with the balsam,

Pink, small, and punctual, Aromatic, low, Covert in April, Candid in May, Dear to the moss,

685 Not “Revelation”—'tis—that waits, But our unfurnished eyes—

I counted till they danced so Their slippers leaped the town, And then I took a pencil To note the rebels down. And then they grew so jolly

I found the phrase to every though… I ever had, but one; And that defies me,—as a hand Did try to chalk the sun To races nurtured in the dark;—

493 The World—stands—solemner—to me— Since I was wed—to Him— A modesty befits the soul That bears another’s—name—

391 A Visitor in Marl— Who influences Flowers— Till they are orderly as Busts— And Elegant—as Glass—

“Sic transit gloria mundi,” “How doth the busy bee,” “Dum vivimus vivamus,” I stay mine enemy! Oh “veni, vidi, vici!”

183 I’ve heard an Organ talk, sometim… In a Cathedral Aisle, And understood no word it said— Yet held my breath, the while—

959 A loss of something ever felt I— The first that I could recollect Bereft I was—of what I knew not Too young that any should suspect

693 Shells from the Coast mistaking— I cherished them for All— Happening in After Ages To entertain a Pearl—

588 I cried at Pity—not at Pain— I heard a Woman say “Poor Child”—and something in her… Convicted me—of me—